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    Death Stone
    Death Stone
    Death Stone
    Ebook406 pages4 hours

    Death Stone

    By Ruby Jean Jensen

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    About this ebook

    “Ten-agers” Greta and her cousin Derek are constant companions. Upon finding an old well, of course they must pry off the rotten wood cover. Derek fetches his Dad’s fishing rod. He soon hooks a beautiful gold ring with a red stone setting, followed by an ornate piece of cloth. It becomes apparent that there is a body in the bottom of the well ... the police must be called in.

    Greta immediately takes possession of the ring. She must possess that ring! Without knowing why, she turns the ring toward her palm to make it less noticeable. Curiously, she soon becomes haunted by a strange, terrifying feeling—that someone is following her. Someone like a shadow. She also starts hearing a whispered voice telling her to do bad things. Is this voice only in her head? Then comes the murder. Greta, nearby at the time, remembers nothing. But, she can’t shake the nagging feeling that she is somehow responsible, even though she has been saying No, No, No to the whispers!
    As the murder investigation proceeds, dark family histories are slowly revealed.

    Death Stone has been described as “quietly eerie”, “schizo creepy”.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRuby Jean Jensen
    Release dateMar 15, 2021
    ISBN9781951580414
    Death Stone
    Author

    Ruby Jean Jensen

    Ruby Jean Jensen (1927 – 2010) authored more than 30 novels and over 200 short stories. Her passion for writing developed at an early age, and she worked for many years to develop her writing skills. After having many short stories published, in 1974 the novel The House that Samael Built was accepted for publication. She then quickly established herself as a professional author, with representation by a Literary Agent from New York. She subsequently sold 29 more novels to several New York publishing houses. After four Gothic Romance, three Occult and then three Horror novels, MaMa was published by Zebra books in 1983. With Zebra, Ruby Jean completed nineteen more novels in the Horror genre.Ruby was involved with creative writing groups for many years, and she often took the time to encourage young authors and to reply to fan mail.

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      Book preview

      Death Stone - Ruby Jean Jensen

      Prologue

      You killed ... you murdered an old woman for this ... a ring?

      No ... no! ... I hate you ... I didn’t!

      There’s blood. Blood on the stone. Here ... keep it ... and be damned ... damned ...

      No! I didn’t! He ... he did ... he! He gave it to me ...

      There’s blood on your hands, damn you to hell ...

      The hand struck her face again and again, and she tasted blood in her mouth, a sweetish, sickening, thick substance. Red. She tasted the color red. And as the hand struck her head again, she saw colors behind her eyes, flashing like neons on a downtown street, blurred behind a sheet of tears that was like rain, falling and blending with the red and with the greens, blues, and reds of the neons.

      You’ll be sorry, she screamed, lashing back. You’ll be sorry!

      There came an added strength, another blow that knocked her backward. The colors blurred to gray. She fell to the floor, the flashes of light behind her eyes gone, as if the rain had grown heavier and had now obscured the flashing neons.

      Arms picked her up and carried her.

      Then she was falling, forever, into a dark place where there was no light at all. She kept falling and falling and falling ...

      Chapter 1

      Greta, at age nine, was six months younger than her cousin Derek. He had been her companion and playmate all her life. Their houses were separated by two wide yards and a narrow citrus grove, and their mothers were sisters. As Greta crawled through the tall grass that was left to weeds and natural growth at the rear of the houses, her hair blended and was lost within it, both the color of ripe wheat. She was making a pathway through the grass, and a few feet away, his own hair blending, moved Derek, though she couldn’t see him. They were African lions and they were hiding from the great white hunters, Derek’s fourteen-year-old brother, Kenny, and his friend, Calvin. They were working on their jeep, which actually was a bicycle; and it didn’t matter at all that neither Kenny nor Calvin even knew they were in the tall, brown grass. They were cruel hunters, with long guns and sharp knives, and they killed lions.

      They’re coming, Derek hissed, in the low growl of one lion warning another. Run. Keep low.

      Greta lowered her head until her chin grazed the ground, and crawled faster through the grass, blinded by its thickness. She butted the obstacle in the grass with her forehead, a hard blow, and jerked up involuntarily, crying out, Ouch! '

      Hey! Derek warned, his head coming up to glare at her.

      Over the top of the grass she could see they were in the old orchard, surrounded by almond trees whose bark was rough and whose limbs were unpruned and twisted. They had gone farther into the edge of the orchard than they ever had before. Behind them half the length of a city block were their houses, shaded and half concealed by trees; and in the alleyway in between, Kenny was bent over his bicycle. Calvin sat on the ground, his own bike a few feet away. They didn’t know Greta and Derek were anywhere around, nor did they care. Greta’s eyes swept the neighborhood. In a row with Derek’s house and hers was the older, larger house of their grandfather, the original farmhouse. And behind it all the interesting old farm buildings were clustered, no longer used.

      No one was in sight other than the two boys.

      What are you doing? Derek demanded. Get down! The hunters will see you. Wanna get your head blown off?

      Greta rubbed her forehead and felt the small swell of a knot. She lowered her head and peered at the object in the grass. It looked like a curving metal wall, with a wooden top. Altogether, it was only half as tall as the grass.

      Hey, Derek, look here. What’s this? She sat up, parting the grass. There was directly in her path a thick plank lid of some sort, sitting on rusted metal that was built in a circle no wider than the top of a small table.

      Derek came toward her, on his hands and knees, his eyes just skimming the top of the grass. His crew cut looked as stiff as clipped grass, as if it had been mowed. Greta almost giggled as she glanced at him, but her forehead throbbed and dampened her amusement. She rubbed the low swell of the bump. In all the years they had crawled through the tall, uncut grass, they had never come upon this, whatever it was. And then she noticed they were in off-limits territory. They had made their pathways deeper into the orchard than ever before. Hadn’t they always heard: Stay in the yards. Don’t go back into the old orchards. Don’t go in the barns. Don’t go in the sheds. There were so many places they weren’t supposed to play because, their mothers said, it wasn’t safe. Why wasn’t it safe? That was just one of the things mothers said that didn’t make sense, that had no real reason behind it. Unless, of course, they had meant that something like this might happen, and one of them would crack his forehead against rusty metal tucked down into the cover of the grass.

      Derek sat up beside her and helped push the grass back from the wood lid. He picked at a piece of the wood and it came away in his fingers, rotten, soft. He began working at that board, nailed to the others by a cross plank, and the board came loose.

      With her head close to his, Greta cautioned, Derek, don’t. Mama wouldn’t want you to do that. What is it?

      I don’t know. He pulled another board off and leaned over the metal wall and peered in. Greta tried to push her head in beside his so she could see too, but there wasn’t room.

      What is it? she demanded. Is it a pipe? A big pipe, she amended, looking at its circumference. A yard wide, as her mother would say, as she measured cloth.

      Hey! Derek called into the opening, and his voice echoed back deeply from somewhere below. With eyes rounded, he looked over his shoulder at Greta. It’s a well!

      A well!

      Greta shouldered him away, gripped the curved, rusty metal in her hands, and peered into the dark interior. Darkness, eerie and deep, came up to meet her. Cold air rose and covered her face like wintertime. She shuddered and didn't resist when Derek shoved her aside.

      With both hands he began tearing at the lid. Help me, he said. You lift that side.

      Greta moved around to the other side of the metal pipe that stuck six inches up out of the ground, and gripped the heavy lid. Grunting, she lifted. Across the lid she saw Derek’s face turning red and twisted as he applied strength. The lid began to move. They twisted it sideways and the bolt that had been holding it pulled free of the softened wood. The lid slid off beneath their hands and the top of the well was opened to the air. Together they looked in, each gripping the metal edge, their heads close.

      It seemed, just for a flash, that she glimpsed the reflection of water far below, but she couldn’t be sure. The cool air rushed upward against her face, and she felt suddenly uncomfortable, as if she were going to pitch head forward into the long, dark, deep hole. She drew back. Derek looked up at her, his face shining, with the look in his eyes that meant he had thought of something really fun to do.

      It’s got water! Let’s go fishing.

      Fishing! she cried scornfully, but Derek was already on his feet. Is there fish down there? '

      Sure there’s fish down there, Derek called back over his shoulder as he began rushing through the grass toward the lawn shed behind his house. Greta followed him.

      There is not! Fish don’t live in wells.

      They do too. Especially when it’s connected to the ocean.

      The ocean? Greta looked over her shoulder, but the well was hidden by the tall grass that grew in the orchard as well as the empty spaces between the alley and the orchard.

      Sure, the ocean, Derek said with great enthusiasm as he stumbled through the obstructing grass, trying to run but unable to. That’s why it’s so cold down there. The water comes from Alaska. From the North Pole, even. I’m going to get my dad’s fishing gear.

      Hey, you better not!

      Greta caught up with him at the edge of the lawn, then she had to run to keep up. They crossed behind the citrus grove and into the mowed backyard of Derek’s house. He stopped and looked around. Greta looked around, too. Not even Kenny and Calvin were in sight now.

      You stand guard, Derek ordered, and slipped into the shed.

      Greta stood on the grass just off the worn path that led from the shed to various points in the rear yard of Derek’s house, and watched for any sign of movement. Two thick-leafed orange trees obscured the back door of his house, and the kitchen windows where Aunt Alyne might be. The corner of the house stuck out toward the driveway and the garage, but there was no window at the point that was visible.

      Farther over, just across a vine-covered wall, was the white exterior of Grandfather’s house. She could see the sloping roof of his back screen porch and the steep rise of the roof above the attic, and she could see windows where Grandfather’s housekeeper, Miss Reade, might be, hidden behind the lace curtains. But Greta spent only a moment looking at the windows. Miss Reade was a nice lady who gave them milk and cookies on the screened porch sometimes, on those occasions they wandered into Grandfather’s backyard, usually by accident. She was soft and round and wore dresses and aprons instead of slacks and blouses, and she never, never wore shorts. Once Greta had asked her mother why Miss Reade never wore shorts, even on the hottest days, and her mother had laughed and said, She’d be fired if she did. So Greta supposed that meant that Grandfather wouldn’t like it.

      Grandfather himself was a somewhat fearsome figure. He was extremely tall, even though he bent forward over a cane when he walked, and he had hair as white as cotton that he kept brushed back from his forehead. It never slipped and fell forward like Kenny’s or William’s, or like Derek’s had before his new crew cut. It always waved back, as if it were freshly dampened and combed.

      Greta didn’t see her grandfather very often. She didn’t think he liked kids a lot, though sometimes when he was out on his front porch, he would call Derek and her to him and he would touch their heads and there would come into his eyes a misty look that made them vague and distant.

      Derek came out of the shed, head first, as if it were disembodied. He looked cautiously in all directions before the rest of him followed, holding his dad’s best fishing rod behind him.

      Is it safe? he inquired.

      All clear, she answered.

      Okay, let’s see. We got to get there without Kenny and Calvin seeing us. William’s gone over to Rudy’s today. We don’t have to worry about him. Shh! Wait!

      A door slammed, then the voice of Stephanie, Greta’s sixteen-year-old sister, drifted to them. Okay, Mom, she called to the house as she moved into sight on the walk beyond the citrus grove, only her long, tanned legs showing beneath the thick, green leaves of the grove. Okay, okay. I promise! I’ll be back by five.

      Greta watched the legs move out of sight beyond shrubs in her own yard next door.

      All clear now? Derek asked, ready to scoot back into the shed.

      All clear, Greta said, looking for Kenny and Calvin as she led the way around back of the shed to the unpaved alley that ran behind the three houses.

      Let’s go this way, Derek said, running past her into the orchard. Bend down so they won’t see us.

      Greta followed, bent, her back only slightly higher than the grass that had grown very tall during the summer. She had meant to tell Derek that they weren’t supposed to go into the orchard, but of course he knew that. And hadn’t they just come out of the orchard where they had found the well? This was land that had belonged to a large farm that once was owned by Grandfather’s father, so her mother had told her. But other people owned part of it now, and there were rumors that someday there would be houses here, just as there were houses all along the road back into town. Besides, her mother said, you never knew who might be in the orchard. When she was a child, it was old bums, and perhaps there were still old bums in the orchards. Greta raised her head, but saw nothing that looked like it might be an old bum. She wasn’t exactly sure what bums were supposed to look like, but she had an image in her mind of a dark, mysterious, bent figure in a heavy cape, someone who looked out through beady eyes. A stranger. Bums were synonymous with strangers who were never, never supposed to be talked to.

      Is it all clear? Derek asked.

      Greta looked over her shoulder. Kenny and Calvin were still in the bare alley, still bent over the bicycle. Near them was the old dog, Buster, a blue heeler, who followed Kenny wherever he went so long as he was allowed. But he never barked at Derek or Greta, he only barked at strangers.

      All clear, Greta said.

      Good. Derek sat down in the grass at the edge of the open well and looked at Greta. He admitted, I forgot bait.

      Greta knelt in the grass and looked at the bare hook on the end of the line. It was cruel and sharp, with claw-like projections. Poor fish, she thought. If a fish bit the hook, it would never be free again.

      What are you going to do with the fish? she asked.

      Derek twisted his mouth sideways and looked off into the grass. Eat it, he said, clearly thinking of something else.

      I don’t want you to eat it, Greta cried. I don’t want you to kill a fish!

      I won’t kill it, Derek said with contempt, looking at her as if she’d lost her mind. I’ll just ...

      Throw it back? Uncle Ross says he throws them back lots of times.

      Sure, I know. I went fishing with him this summer.

      I know that, Greta said pointedly as she leaned to look again into the well. How very well she knew that Derek had gone away for a week’s fishing with his dad and Kenny and his other brother, William. It had been lonesome here, with no one but Stephanie, who was no company at all, no fun, and their mothers, and of course Grandfather, who didn’t really count as a companion anyway.

      Derek elbowed her aside and she moved willingly. The cold air was still wafting up from the deep, black hole, and she could see nothing down the pipe but the dwindling, rusting walls, lost in the darkness. She shuddered again and Derek noticed.

      Chicken, he said, grinning. But then he was suddenly serious as he let out the fishing line into the hole. I’m going to fish anyway, even without bait. Some fish will bite an empty hook, you know.

      Why?

      Because it’s shiny.

      Greta peered over the edge of the metal and saw the line trembling as the hook went out of sight. It doesn’t look shiny to me.

      It will to the fish.

      I really don’t think there could be any fish down there.

      Derek concentrated on letting out the fishing line, ignoring her. Gosh, it’s deep, he said in a suddenly muted, awed tone.

      Together they leaned over the edge of the pipe, looking down, but the line dwindled to nothing in the darkness that was so close to the top of the pipe they could have reached down and touched it. Greta pulled back hurriedly, but Derek stayed looking over as he let out more line.

      He looked at Greta and his eyes were round as moons, staring at her the way they always did when he was surprised or scared or something. There! he whispered. Look. The hook hit the water.

      He pointed to the line and the way, for a moment, it leaned against the side of the pipe, as if folding upon itself. But then, slowly, it straightened.

      See, I told you! Derek whispered excitedly. There’s water down there. He jiggled the rod up and down, tightening the line, relaxing it.

      What are you doing? Greta asked.

      I’m fishing, silly, what else?

      Is that how you fish?

      Sure.

      She had only Derek’s word for it. Her own dad, Philip, was an accountant, if that had anything to do with fishermen. Anyway, he didn’t go fishing. On his vacation he liked to go to Las Vegas.

      Derek began to wind the reel. It made a soft noise, almost like a mouse squeak, against a whispered background.

      Greta leaned forward cautiously, looking over the dark edge. Did you catch something?

      I don’t know. You have to reel in once in a while and look. Get it?

      Sure.

      She moved back again, suddenly visualizing the eyes of a large fish moving silently up the walls of the well, coming face to face with her.

      The hook came in sight and Greta stared. For a long, breathless moment, Derek stared too. Both of them were silent. Something small and round hung on the hook. Slowly Derek reached out, as if he were going to remove it from the hook, but instead he caught hold of the line above the hook and pulled it toward them.

      It looked like a ring, darkened with something like moss, concealing the stone. Water dripped from the moss, striking the edge of the pipe and making a soft sound that seemed to echo back from the depths of the well.

      They spoke simultaneously in lowered, excited voices. It’s a ring! And Derek added, A man’s ring.

      It could be a girl’s, Greta said, trying to peer through the slimy green stuff that strung down from it.

      With the tail of his pullover knit he cleaned the ring superficially, uncovering a round, polished stone, red, surrounded by a setting of gold.

      Gosh, he breathed. A pirate’s ring, I bet.

      Greta leaned closer, her hands flat on the ground, and watched him try to clean it. Icky stuff stuck to the depressions in the carving of the gold and made a black circle around the stone. Yet the stone turned to fire for a moment when he turned it, as if something had exploded deep within it. Greta jerked back, but Derek seemed not to notice.

      Golly, he breathed again.

      Then suddenly he thrust it toward her, and she put her palms together, like a cradle, to receive it.

      Derek was leaning into the well again, not even looking to see if he had dropped the ring into Greta’s hands.

      Treasures! he cried. There’s treasures down there. A big treasure chest, I bet. Somebody dropped it in a long time ago, the pirates, and when it hit bottom the lid flew open. A thousand years ago. I’m going to fish for more. He grabbed up the fishing line and began letting the hook down into the narrow, black hole.

      Greta cleaned the ring. Bits of dark scum made the gold look black in places where figures had been carved. The gold encircled the ring, making it look larger than it was. The tiny figures looked like birds. No ... maybe ... bats? And there were vines with leaves, or something like that.

      I’ll have to have some soap and water, she muttered.

      I’ll give my mom a diamond necklace, Derek cried with great enthusiasm. And my dad a dagger with jewels set in the handle.

      Greta put the ring on her largest finger, but the stone slid around to hang beneath. She would have to pad it, but that would be easily done with tape. She’d seen her sister fix a ring like that not many weeks ago, when some boy gave her his class ring. Stephanie was still wearing it, Greta thought. She turned her hand, looking at the stone. The light from the cloudy day brought out a fiery shine that increased as she rubbed her fingers over the top of the smooth, red stone. On the surface it looked deep red, so dark it was almost black. But coming through, in sharp little shafts, was the red fire, rising and receding as she turned the ring to catch the best light.

      She loved it.

      She had to have it.

      Can I have it, Derek?

      No. I’ll give it to my dad.

      Please, Derek, oh, please! I’ll give you ... anything. My next week allowance?

      Derek hardly paused. No.

      Derek! Please. It’s mine. You can have my whole piggy bank with all that’s in it. Okay? Okay, Derek?

      He glanced toward the ring. It’s too big for you.

      I can fix it. Like Steph fixed her ring that the guy gave her. She put adhesive tape on it.

      Derek shrugged, which, as Greta well knew, could mean almost anything. Sometimes it meant he was weakening, and sometimes it meant for her to shut up.

      "Derek? Please?"

      And your knife? The one you found on the school yard? With the pearl handle.

      Greta frowned, looking at the ring. She turned it, watching it change from dark, blood red to bright crimson. She sighed.

      Well, okay.

      Derek nodded, leaning over the well, staring into the hole. You can have it then.

      Greta smiled. Her tongue licked the corner of her lips in satisfaction. Then suddenly Derek sat back and was pulling on the line again.

      I hit bottom, he cried. Maybe I got something really neat. I think I got something.

      Is it heavy? The ring, its stone warm against her palm, was kind of heavy.

      No, he admitted. But ...

      She tightened her hand over the ring, the stone pressed inward against her palm. She got on her knees again, her hands on the ground, and peered over the edge.

      A soft rush of wind whispered through the grass, moving it as if a huge hand had brushed across it. Greta shivered. She heard the beginning sprinkles of rain, but the almond tree they were sitting under kept the rain away. It pecked the leaves above, little noises that blended with the soft brushing of the fishing line against the pipe.

      The line was rising. The hook came in sight, and there was something attached; but it didn’t look like treasures or jewels or anything from a treasure chest. It was dark and limp, and black water dripped from it back into the well.

      She was only vaguely aware of footsteps in the grass behind them, of someone coming to stand and watch.

      Derek lifted the hook slowly into the air. The thing hanging on it was about the size of a man’s handkerchief. It was mostly covered with the same dark, greenish slime that had covered the ring.

      Derek shook it, slinging water back on Greta. But she didn’t notice. Figures on the torn scrap became visible in the light, almost obscured beneath the blackish scum that covered it, and Greta realized it was a piece of cloth, that once it had roses or some other small flower.

      Hey! a voice said from behind and above. What's that? What’re you doing? Derek? Greta? Does Mom know you’re out here in these weeds? What if you get snake bit?

      Greta and Derek whirled, looking up at the two tall young figures that hovered almost threateningly over them. Kenny and Calvin. Behind them, his tail wagging, was old Buster.

      What’re you guys doing? Kenny demanded. What is that place?

      Kenny and Calvin crowded in against the pipe, forcing Greta and Derek back. Kenny took the fishing rod away from Derek, at the same time peering down into the open pipe.

      What’re you doing with Dad’s rod and reel? What the hell have you done to his line, Derek? You got it all unwound. Don’t you know Dad’s fishing gear is off limits? Why didn’t you use your own? You got a brand new rod last summer. Hey, what is that? What’s down there?

      Looks like a well to me, Calvin said.

      Their heads came together over the well, Calvin’s dark hair falling forward and contrasting with the light brown of Kenny’s for a moment as their foreheads touched. Calvin had dark, soft fuzz on his upper lip and at two spots on his chin, and at times, like now, his voice was deep and low.

      Jesus Christ, Kenny muttered, and then whistled through his teeth as he drew back and reached for the limp, dripping thing that was attached to the sharp hook.

      Greta frowned at Kenny. He was not usually into swearing, and she thought it sounded strange coming from him. She clasped her hand, holding the stone of the ring tightly against her palm, suddenly glad the ring was so large the stone turned inward where it was easily hidden. She knew at this moment, in the deepest part of her being, that what she was doing was wrong, that she should give Kenny the ring. But she couldn’t give it up. It was against the rational part of her will that she was hiding it, as if something cold and dark and evil were in the pretty stone and was pulling her to its will.

      Kenny removed the ragged piece of material from the hook and made a sound of distaste as his fingers worked it into a flattened leaf on his hands. He looked up into his buddy’s eyes and they whistled softly together.

      A piece of dress or shirt, said Calvin.

      There’s something down there, all right, Kenny said. "I wonder if it could be a body? A dead person? Derek, how long have you known this was here? How did ..."

      But Derek began scrambling up from the ground, running before he was fully on his feet, going like a small animal, with his hands and his feet pushing him along at first, into the thick, tall brown grass.

      Not treasures, but a body. A dead person.

      Greta followed him, the tall grass holding her back, so that it seemed someone had grabbed her and was keeping her from running. From the corner of her eye she saw a dark shadow running beside her, and thought of it as her own. She felt as if she were in a nightmare, trying to run but unable to, as if something were pulling her backward to throw her into the deep, dark hole of the well to lie in the stagnant water with the bones and the rotted flesh of the body.

      When at last she reached the alley, and felt the rain grow heavier on her head, she realized there was no sun to throw a shadow.

      She ran on, sensing something behind that kept pace with her.

      Chapter 2

      Alyne stood over the sinks in the island in the center of her kitchen cleaning vegetables. In the top rack of the steamer she placed broccoli and cauliflower. Then, in the small center sink of the triple sink arrangement, she began to scrub carrots. She sighed and changed position, putting most of her weight on one leg.

      She had spent her day doing the same thing she always did. First, the beds and laundry. Each one of her three boys had to make up his own bed and straighten up his room, but she always went in after they were gone to school or out to play and smoothed the beds to suit herself. If they ever realized she had redone their work, they hadn’t let on to her. If she knew boys, and she thought she did, they didn’t have the foggiest that anyone had been in their rooms but themselves. After the bed smoothing and the couple of loads of laundry, she had gone shopping, partly because she needed fresh vegetables for dinner, and partly because it was her recreation. At the snack bar in the supermarket she had treated herself to a soft drink and a doughnut. She had felt properly guilty for an appropriate length of time, and then promised herself she would cut back on calories tonight. At the checkout stand she had bought a magazine.

      Home again, she relaxed and read part of the magazine with the radio on her favorite station of easy listening music. Then when she got up an hour later, she switched the station to rock and roll, music to help her feel young and agile again. She sighed. Young and agile again? She was only thirty-eight. Only, she told herself pointedly, because thirty-eight didn’t seem young. It didn’t feel young. And from the viewpoint of her oldest son, Kenny, it was definitely not young. But her father was now eighty-three, and to him it was ridiculously young. All a matter of perspective. And energy. Of which she didn’t have much at the moment. Today being Saturday and the boys home from school, she’d had to prepare lunch in the midst of her other daily doings. Ross, her husband, had worked most of the day, as he so often did. He worked longer hours and more days since he received his promotion to Managing Engineer at the factory, so the promotion sometimes seemed more of a curse than a blessing. He was turning into a workaholic. He was happy with life the way it was and she should be too, but sometimes she envied her younger sister, Clare, with her job and her totally different lifestyle.

      She glanced up and out the wide windows at the rear of the kitchen just in time to catch a glimpse of Derek and Greta flashing out of sight beyond the corner of the house. She paused, arrested by something beyond, a movement in the orchard.

      She dried her hands on the towel that lay on the counter, and walked around to the dining area of the kitchen where she could look out the back windows. She saw nothing out of the ordinary. Rain was dampening the walk that curved left from the patio to the back door of the garage. The narrow, unpaved service road that lay behind her house, her sister’s house, and her father’s house, looked dark, the usually brown dirt dampened with the light rain. Beyond the road was a strip of land given over to grass that hadn’t been cut in a while, probably not since last year, if then. And beyond the grass was the old almond orchard, now looking deprived of light, as if it were a medieval forest.

      But there was something too still now about the scene, as if something were missing. She concentrated on it, and saw nothing out of place.

      The garage, separate from the house, was to her left. A garden shed was behind that, though not directly behind. A path ran from the garden shed to the garage, for some reason, grass trampled down by bicycle tires, probably. A rack beside the garage held five bicycles, one for each of them. To her right she could see the wall that separated the old, big house her father owned from her own yard, a good-sized lot given to her at her marriage. And to her left was the row of fruit trees and grape vines that separated her yard and Clare’s.

      Nothing moved, except a bird at the feeder.

      Alyne went back to the sink and put the rest of the vegetables into the steamer and put it on the stove. It was two hours until dinner time. She set the burner on low. At least that part of the dinner was finished.

      She sensed movement in the backyard again and turned, and this time she saw Kenny and Calvin coming toward the house, across the grass. They had a fast, purposeful walk that made her watch them as they came up onto the patio and toward the sliding doors. Something had happened that Kenny was going to report. She knew her sons, and she suspected that whatever it was involved Derek. It usually did. Poor Derek, he hardly got a chance to misbehave because if Kenny weren’t reporting on him, then Willy was. This afternoon, though, Willy had gone over to Lenny’s or Rudy’s house to play.

      Kenny was holding something between his finger and thumb, Alyne saw, as if it were distasteful. But he was bringing it into the kitchen, like an offering to her. She automatically put her hands behind her back. She’d had these offerings ever since Kenny learned to walk thirteen years ago.

      What is it? she asked, as soon as the boys stepped into the house, leaving the door open behind them.

      You’re not going to believe this, Mom, Kenny said. Alyne nodded in agreement, but he wasn’t looking at her. The thing in his hand was dripping a growing little pool of dark liquid onto her clean, white tile. But this came out of an old well back in the edge of the orchard, and you know what?

      Calvin burst out, as if he couldn’t stay quiet, There’s a body down there!

      Kenny said, almost at the same time, "This looks like a piece of material to us. What

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